Sometimes You Have to Lose to Win
by Lunar Iris
Summary: England loses a bet and must wear a very tight pair of skinny jeans to a world meeting. The other nations find this hot. But, the sensation that his jeans and their lecherous attention create annoy America. What does he do about it? Sexy-times ensue! De-anon from the Kink Meme.


This is another de-anon from the kink-meme. It ended up being a lot longer than I had anticipated and it kind of ran away from me. This is just what it is after writing it four times from both America's and England's POVs, and giving it a look over for editing another two times. Someone, please, let me know if something still needs to be fixed. I've been dying to get another USUK fic up. So, here it is.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warning (why am I writing a warning for this fic?) rated M for non-penetrative sex.

* * *

**Sometimes You Have to Lose to Win Big**

For all the curses England had ever put on other people, he almost wished to put one on himself now.

No! He would curse Prussia and Denmark for catching him in a weak moment —slightly plastered—the penultimate night of the world conference, and challenging him go through an entire meeting without fighting with France. Regardless of who might have started it, Prussia added that stipulation to "make things more awesome." It was not in England to back down from a challenge. What was even worse, they made them sign it—on a napkin so it was "all official-like"— Denmark's idea—on the long shot that he should lose. Of course, he would not lose.

But, he did. England lost the bet. And his dignity. All on the same day. At least he had lasted until the lunch break.

During France's speech concerning employment figures and the Euro, he had continually goaded him with an ill-concealed list of reasons the French disliked the English and that had broken his resolve against breaking his face. He could not remember who actually threw the first punch after his attempt to choke France with his own tie. The next thing he knew, his trousers were drenched. He cursed France for taking their customary argument a step further and wielding that pitcher of water, soaking through even his pants. He threw various office supplies at the frog's head and charged out of the room, briefcase held protectively over the front of his trousers for a soggy trudge to his London flat, squishing the whole way.

Prussia flashed the dreaded napkin at him on his way out the door, laughing and elbowing Denmark. It must have been his demented form of a sign to go ahead and follow through with the bet. There was no need to go all out though. Wear something from his punk days, they had dared. Okay, so he would.

He refused any that were zippered, chained or horridly ripped, settling for his tightest pair instead. He was surprised how well they had fit after all these years, his punk jeans. One of his less flamboyant pairs. They were more than snug and fit him like a second skin. He slipped on a white dress shirt and realized that he'd never be able to tuck it in, so hid the mess of clothing underneath his suit jacket.

Purposefully, he returned from lunch before everyone else, set up everything he needed for his speech later in the meeting and sat down before any of the other nations entered, keeping an eye trained on the doorway. He forgot how good those jeans felt. They had not seen the light of day in more than a decade, and he certainly had never been seen in them within the walls of a conference room. He just wished he could have kept it that way.

"I see you're all changed. I missed you at lunch, Engl—" He heard America's strained swallow when he sat down—just as England recrossed his legs, running a hand over the fabric to keep it from pulling. "Eng...Ah, England, what the hell are you wearing?" He hissed as though the empty room at ears.

"Ah, well, you see..." He couldn't think of how to continue. "Funny thing is..."

"England?" he huffed, his voice low and insistent.

"Um..."

"Lookin' good England." Prussia and Denmark draped themselves across the back of his chair and reached behind him, each with a hand on his thighs. They had slipped up on him during his awkward conversation with America.

"Hands off." England seized each of their wrists and squeezed until he felt bones and muscles strain, emphasizing his point.

"Ow," Denmark pulled his hand free. "We'll keep our hands to ourselves. We just wanted to make sure you didn't renege."

"Renege?" America growled. "What're you talking about?"

England flung Prussia's hand away, though he took that as an opportunity to pat England on the shoulder; America brushed it off with a violent swat. "Just a little wager."

"Ja. A bet." Denmark smirked. "That England here couldn't go a whole meeting without fighting with France."

"So, wait. Let me get this straight." America's brow scrunched in concentration and his cheeks pinked when his eyes darted down for another quick peek at the jeans. "England had to wear those if he lost?"

Prussia nodded and grinned, all teeth. "Something like that, ja."

"That's it?" America looked doubtful. "Nothing else?"

Denmark gestured down. "Looking at those legs is enough."

The bastard! England seethed.

"When he goes up to speak, who needs anything more than that?" They both laughed.

"Just go to your seats!" England squirmed in his seat. "The meeting will resume soon. Thank god."

"And, boy are we looking forward to it. For once." Denmark muttered as they turned away.

The parting laughter soon faded, but America's pout of disapproval and longing did not. "We'll talk about it later," England huffed.

America merely grunted in response, it sounded petulant and possessive. He remained aware of the other nation's fidgeting and furtive glances at his lap whenever he moved long after the meeting had resumed. He couldn't place all the blame on America for that. He shifted again and awaited the delicious catch of breath that would follow. He thought he heard a chuckle and soft hum of appreciation pass behind him and glanced over at Canada, returning to his seat with the ghost of a smile on his lips, amusement sparkled in his eyes. Then, suddenly, Germany called his name, and both he and America groaned in unison as he stood.

England felt The Eyes and shivered as he walked to the head of the table to present his speech. The hungry ogling of his backside was none too welcome. He could have sworn he heard an ill-concealed wolf-call. Probably from Denmark and Prussia. Just lovely.

Though conflicted about the reaction he received, it was rather thrilling and he slowly cocked his hips to one side and then the other as he spoke and enjoyed the mutterings that resulted—he would never own up to enjoying the initial attention.

Resolutely giving no heed to The Eyes, England began his presentation. One particular set of eyes remained unrelenting in their gaze since he had turned around to the screen to clarify further one of his points. He attempted to ignoring it all for a little while longer, and continued to speak.

"And now, America, will you please provide us your projected figures for next year's... America?" England paused, and watched him—the nation's mouth agape, eyes unblinking. America had put his hand to his mouth, his expression remained unchanged. He did not look as though he was asleep with his eyes open, as he usually did during meetings when others were speaking. He was transfixed. He looked wolfish, suddenly making England nervous. "America!"

He didn't even respond when England tossed his pointer at his head, so he walked toward him.

"Earth to the United Sodding States of America! Pay attention to the meeting, git!" He shook him out of his daze by his shoulders.

"Huh?" America's eyes slowly wound their way up England's legs. He fought the urge to squirm under the intensity of the stare as America struggled to keep his eyes from lingering at his crotch, which he knew gave hint to what was contained within. He forced his gaze up farther as quickly as he could, and looked England staunchly at his left temple and whimpered. He shivered at the longing in those darkening blue eyes.

"That's what I thought," He groused—relieved that America wasn't looking him in the eyes, struggling to hide the excitement of his lusty gaze, trying to pretend it wasn't there for a few moments longer.

"Awesomest idea yet..." America muttered, but the whole assembly heard anyway, and a low hum of snickering filtered through the room.

"What are you thinking?" There were ideas floating around in America's mind, made clear in his eyes, and he wondered what they were. But, really, England knew. He was sure that they had nothing to do with the meeting in the slightest. They probably centred around taking him on the bloody conference table—he wasn't sure if he would be completely adverse to that idea, if it wasn't for the many voyeurs.

"Angleterre," France practically purred, cupping a hand around his ass, "you give us quite a treat today, mon cher." The meeting was officially disrupted—again.

England, growled, interrupted so suddenly from staring into the deepening blue of America's eyes, and seized France's wrist in a vice grip and twisted. "Belt up, you fucking perverted Frog! Or, so help me, Agincourt will seem like a leisurely stroll down your pansy Champs-Élysées!"

France gaped, managing to shake his hand free. "You do not say such things about my belle avenue! Besides, you over-react."

"Well I did, and I mean it! Ack!" He squawked and pushed away France's wandering hands. "And keep your filthy French hands off my arse or I will remove them and shove them firmly up yours!"

He heard a deep growl from beside him. America was caught between snarling at France and leering at his legs. England spun back around to America with wide eyes.

"I agree with Francie-pants, England." Prussia cackled. "You're one hot piece of ass!"

"That is a very nice look for you, England." He glanced over across the table; Canada's unassuming half-smile suddenly unnerved him. Even Canada?! He fought the urge to pout, and sprint out of the room.

America's growling increased in volume. He thought he heard a muttered, "mine."

England gaped.

Germany shot up and shoved his brother back into his seat to much griping. "Prussia, sit back down. Everyone back to—" he paused. "Although," his view of England was now unobstructed by chairs, table and other nations, "...Hm...England, have you picked up on your training again?"

"Germany! Not you too!" England stared, thoroughly scandalized that Germany, usually the level head in the midst of the nations' insanity, had joined the ogling.

"Why not, mi amigo? What's not to enjoy." Spain rose from his seat, making eyes and nodding to France. They both advanced toward him. Instinctively, England backed up. France hemmed him in from the other side.

"Those jeans do quite suit you...very nicely, comrade." Russia smiled.

He had not wanted this kind of attention, had considered reneging at America's first reaction and running back home, dragging him along.

A few other nations were still in their seats with tissues firmly pressed to their noses. Soon several others began to move in on him, a rabbit surrounded by foxes. But not, because he was not a weak little rabbit.

In a fluid-like movement, England's leg's met the chair behind him and he plopped into it; a broad back immediately blocked him from the rest of the room. France was shoved backwards and fell to the floor on his ass.

"What the fuck is wrong with you people!?" America bellowed; his breath came in quiet pants. A hush fell over the room. "You're like fucking leches!"

"Don't bother insulting them as such, America. Libertines, the lot of them. They hardly care." They really probably didn't, England knew.

"Well, yes, Angleterre, Amerique." France stared at England from between America's legs. "With legs like those...oui? They are very good, lean legs. And flexible, too." His smirk widened.

"If you don't stop, I will beat the living shit out of you. All of you."

"That is not a wise threat, America." Canada loomed over England from behind his chair. When had he moved? "What about you? What do you want, England?" he purred, a coy smile curling his lips and brushed his hands through England's hair briefly, and then let them wander down to his shoulders.

Had the whole world gone bonkers?

"As far as I'm concerned," England glared, leaning to peer around America, glad that Canada's hands slid off his shoulders. "You lot can all go and fuck yourselves. You all act as though you've never seen a bloke in pair of jeans before."

"But you fill yours out so very well." France had risen from the floor and taken another brave step toward him.

He pushed him backward. "Shove off! This is entirely your fault, you fucking perverted wine-drinking, cheese-eating surrender monkey!"

"My fault!?" he scoffed. "My fault for you appearing in the meeting in jeans that look like they were painted on you, mon cher? Nonsense."

"They are fitted perfectly well. I've had plenty of time to break them in, but—"

America huffed, but he was staring at him with half-lidded eyes. "Just shut the fuck up, France!" He was near his breaking point and it was all England could do not to hold his breath.

"Yes. Yes. Can't we just continue with the meeting like the civilized nations we are supposed to be?" He grasped America's arm to rise the seat as the other nation was about to turn around. "Come, America. Now sit back in your chair, and we shall continue with—" The movement sent America off-balance and their legs tangled together. His hand brushed along the jeans where England's hip met his backside, blindly grasping for some kind of purchase to steady them both, but failed. His groin collided softly with England's hip. They fell ungracefully against to the chair, and then slid sideways to the floor. They landed in a heap on the floor, legs in a tangle. America's rich musky scent filled his nose where it had smashed against his shirt collar.

"Oh fuck," America hissed.

"Get up, you oaf." England shoved, but America had already jerked his legs free, thrashing and wiggling, and rolled off to the side. With a petrified sulk and blue eyes wide, he stared at England. It hurt, and sent sparks through his veins, wherever their legs, hips and groins had touched. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nngh. E-England?"

He could feel his cheeks burning; he was sure they were as red as America's.

"What the hell, America?"

"S-sorry." He averted his eyes, and turned away from the room.

"Ohonhonhonhon!" France had sidled up next to them. "Well, if America doesn't want to, I would love to get into those jeans, mon cher."

"That's it! I've had enough of this bollocks! Back off, you sodding pervert!" England clambered up from the floor.

His groin felt uncomfortably warm after the contact in each other's laps—and his jeans tighter than before. He then noticed the bulge in America's trousers. 'Oh, fuck,' indeed.

"Your reactions...how delightful." France leered and took another foolish step forward. England glanced at all the other predatory smirks in the room. A muttering chorus of offers followed France's distasteful observation. His breath stilled in his throat. Several of them had continued to box them in at the table while their attention was elsewhere, and were murmuring their own longing: Spain, Russia, Prussia, Denmark, even Canada. Hungary and Japan were digging frantically through their belongings, probably for their cameras. A few of the other female nations—namely Belgium and Vietnam—had scrambled to find more tissues. With another step, France had pulled him into his arms.

"Back off!" America seethed, pulling England quickly away, despite their shared discomfort, one hand wrapped around his waist, and the other hung limp at his side, momentarily. In a flash his free hand connected with France's shoulder, sending him stumbling back into Spain and Prussia. "Get Denmark," he hissed in his ear, and then he had turned, launching a punch at Russia's jaw.

So England did, sending the Dane staggering into Canada's side. It happened so quickly and they were huddled so closely together that the nations didn't know what had happened, and continued jostling each other, trying to keep on their feet.

France had recovered, and straightened in an attempt to send a punch at America's head. England pulled him down and under the conference table just before fist connected with jaw and America elbowed Prussia in the nose instead. He yelled about it not being awesome to receive such a pot shot and retaliated. Punches rained. Chaos broke loose.

"Aaand, it's time to end the meeting for the day regardless! How about we get out of here?" America smiled.

"Can we, please?" England breathed.

"All other thoughts vanished and they crawled to the other side of the table to make their getaway. He looked mesmerized as he rushed them out the conference room door, voice breathy and deep. Anything for you, babe."

"Really?" England smirked, as they approached the elevator.

"Absolutely. I just started a fight for you, after all."

"Aren't you the great romantic..."

They laughed, and as the elevator doors opened, he realized America was standing close enough behind him that he could feel his clothed erection nudge his hip.

"Are you alri—"

The metal door pinged closed and America gripped England's ass, silencing him, and kneaded it, guiding his leg up to settle against his hip. The material of his jeans pulled at skin and muscle, but the hands wandering across the round of his ass and the firm plane under his upper thigh distracted him from the slight discomfort. Tension melted away in the waves of soft and firm pressure. They both hissed when their groins touched again.

It was as America pressed him against the wall of the elevator, and another beep sounded that England realized they had not yet kissed. That wasn't fair. Still, the hands explored, and he shivered at the warm panting breath so close to his ear. He tried to amend this with a hand to the man's neck, attempting to direct his head over and close the great distance between their mouths. His plan came to naught as his lips met a firm jaw instead.

"Mine," America buried his face further against the junction of his neck and shoulder, and whimpered, sharp contrast to the firm clasp he had on his ass. It was almost as though he was sulking, a child holding a treasured toy close that another boy had attempted to steal away on the playground.

"America? America, are you okay?

"Yeah. S-sorry." Despite his apology—the second within only a few minutes— he did not let go, but his hands stilled.

"What for?"

"Cause I can't help myself." He pouted. "Cause I'm no better than them. Tried...tried so hard."

"Of course you did. This wasn't your fault. You aren't like the other nations at all." He kissed America's cheek and nose. "Now, what do you say to giving me my leg back, hm?"

"Oh, yeah." He released his leg, separated himself from England, and leaned back against the metal wall. "It's just...I mean... I wasn't expecting...during the meeting..."

"Hmm?" England smiled. "Try using complete sentences, love."

America growled at his half-hearted instruction. "Your legs... hunngh." He squeezed his eyes shut and turning his face away. "They're...they're...fuck, England. You're legs are so damn amazing in those jeans."

His cheeks burned to spite him. "Well, yes. Well. I agreed to it. I lost the bet." He looked away. "I thought I would make it too. Hm. Thought I would actually win."

"Not fighting with France?! Really, England?" They both laughed. "That's more than a little ridiculous even by my standards."

"Now see here!" But he started laughing again, leaving his protest unspoken. "I guess you are right."

America scooped England up into his arms again, kissing him hard on the mouth, hands cupping the muscles just below his buttocks, as the lift doors slid up with another ding. "I'm kinda glad my boss made me get a hotel room even though we are in London."

"Heh, yes well. Put me down." England wiggled from his grasp; he would not be carried like a woman.

"We would never make it to your flat."

"No, we wouldn't." He grabbed America's hand and pulled him along the hotel corridor.

He grinned, pulling his room card out of his wallet, and inserting in into the slot.

They came together again in a mass of limbs, touch and grasping, against the closed door. America wrapped his arms around England's back and fingered the waist of his jeans a moment, pressing him against the door. He kissed him, hard and deep. His hands sunk down, squashing his hand between skin and fabric to cup the firm, soft flesh of his backside—nothing between England and his jeans. They both gasped into the kiss. America pushed them away from the door and propelled them both toward the bed.

"Fuck, England," he laid him down on the bed, hands never leaving his legs. "I...I had no idea. You're...you're not...not wearing any..."

"Ah, no." England gave a nervous, breathy chuckle. "Never was any extra room in these." He wiggled his hips.

"Right, yeah. And, you really do have a perfect ass. So small and round and firm and perky."

England gave him a soft punch to the chest. "Do not describe any part of my body as such, let alone my arse."

"Hey!" American exclaimed, but his small smile didn't falter.

"Now, get me out of these, git. They're bloody tight."

America's hands drifted over the button of England's fly, and then paused. "They sure are and they look damn fine."

"I had no idea you would like them so much."

"Haha! I couldn't concentrate when you came back to the meeting. Those stuffy suits you usually wear don't do you justice at all, honey. I mean, wow. I just wanna worship your legs."

"Well," he smirked, his eyes half-lidded, "I am in no way inclined to stop you, love." The expression slowly became more predatory." Besides, I really want out of these." He shook his hips against the bed.

"Oh, I can help with that." America grinned.

"Does America, the hero, want to save me from the dastardly tight jeans?" He chuckled, already unbuttoning his shirt and starting on America's trousers.

"Anything for you, sweetheart. Anything at all." He sat back to unfasten England's fly, pulling it open, brushing his hands around and underneath to push the jeans down. Nudging England to help him shimmy them off, his hands shook as they slid over bared skin. England also shivered when his heated skin was exposed to cool air.

"Mmmm," America stared in rapt fascination at his legs, studying them in reverence.

"You have seen my legs before, America." He prodded him with his knee.

"I know. But, I never realized how fucking gorgeous they are. How gorgeous you are." He stroked up the length of one of his legs. "Your legs, they just keep on going and going."

"I-I, um...you—" He blushed.

England's thoughts scattered when America lifted one of his legs in his hand, brushing his fingers across it, kissing his ankle. Supporting his knee, he let it rest on his shoulder and nuzzled the soft blonde hairs on his shin and calf, ghosted feather light kisses across his knee, licked the smooth flesh of his thigh.

"That...that tickles, git." But, there was no venom in his voice, only a keening whines from the burn building up in his groin.

America hoisted his other leg up on to his shoulder with a kiss to that ankle—he hooked them together behind his neck—and bestowed the same attention to the other leg. Touching, tasting, stroking, nuzzling, adoring England's legs in whatever ways that came to him. Ways that left England both loved and hungry for more. This wasn't even foreplay, something that they frequently enjoyed at length, often to tease each other. It was as though America had become fixated; it was beyond erotic and lustful. Never before had they been this slow and intense. America was enjoying the sensuous pleasure of his body for its own sake, not as a means to arouse, though he had accomplished that as well. He completely neglected either of their needs, and England didn't want to come just from the attention to his legs.

This was worrisome. He applied a bit of pressure to America's back with his heels. "Darling?"

America started at his voice and nipped at tender flesh on the underside of his thigh. "Hmmm?"

"Ah! Meri, are you all right, love?"

"Perfectly swell." He smiled, contemplatively, like a man studying a piece of art.

"I wanted to make sure. You went all quiet. And you've been neglecting me."

"Aw, babe! How can you say that?" His pout hit England in the gut and he immediately regretting his wording. "I've been loving on you this whole time."

"Because." He chose not to back down anyway, even though he was right.

"'Cause why?"

"I will not play this game, git." He propped himself up on his elbows.

"Aw, I told you I wanted to worship your yummy, scrumptious legs."

"Yes, I remember."

"None of those other nations would've paid them attention like this." His pout deepened and he nipped lightly at his thigh again to stress his point, speaking to England's skin, his voice darkening. "They'd've just fucked you and called it a day. Each one of them." He was right. Before the meeting was interrupted, America looked close to whisking England away anyway, without the excuse of escape. But, he was still being stubborn.

In everything, America was stubborn and intractable, just as England was. And, they always seemed hesitant to either dominate or submit. Both desiring to enjoy, to conquer, to explore, to be explored and to tease. Sometimes all at the same time.

"Well, why don't you give some loving to the rest of me as much as you did my legs."

"Is that a request?"

"No, it's a command, precious." He smiled softly.

America's grin was wide, with blue eyes sparkling in the dim light of the evening that filtered through the closed curtains. "Oh, I don't know. You've been kinda mean to me." He lowered his legs to the bed and sat upright.

England spluttered. "I-I've...You!"

"What?" America smiled with fake innocence.

"You can't just leave me like this?"

"I think, maybe, I can."

England growled and attacked, throwing America back against the bed. "You are still mostly clothed, and this can't be comfortable." He palmed America's hardened bulge through the fabric of his trousers.

"Don't tease, babe," America whined.

"What do you think you've been doing to me the past half hour?"

America whined again in response.

"Mhmm."

"Awe, don't be upset with me, honey."

"Oh, I'm not." England worked on the button and zipper of America's trousers and pulled them down his legs, pushing him back against the bed. He gave a kiss to the trail of hair below his navel.

"Wait," America reached down to still England's hand, and looked away.

"What is it?"

"I-I can't, um touch your legs like this."

"You want to be on top?"

"Not necessarily."

"What do you want, then?" England rolled over on his side next to him.

"I don't know. Yeah, I do, but you..." he trailed off.

"All right then," he patted at America's shoulder. "On your side."

"Hmm?"

"Just lay on your side, git." He gripped his arm and tugged him over bodily so they faced each other.

"Owie," America rubbed at his shoulder. "What're you gonna do?"

"You're fine." England kissed his cheek. "You'll find out."

"Just so—"

"Yes. Do shut up, would you?" He kissed America hard on the mouth to quiet him. He took advantage of the distraction to snake his leg over and around America's leg, knee dragging up his thigh to rest on his hip, ankle hooking underneath and rubbing his shin. His toes brushed blond hairs as he thrust upward. They both gasped into their open-mouthed kiss, sharing each other's air, when their hips collided.

America broke the kiss. "Don't stop." His hand caressed England's side, venturing down to his hip, following his leg as it curved around and nudged it further up almost to his lower back.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Hands wandered and limbs intertwined until England couldn't tell where he stopped and America began. Shaking with their desire-quickened heartbeats as they kissed and tasted each other, relishing in the feeling and the closeness. They broke their kisses only to breathe. He continued to thrust with England, synchronously. Never still, he squeezed and petted calf, thigh, hip, whatever bit skin and taught muscle he could find.

Sometimes their fervour would send America tumbling over onto his back. England would squawk and they would roll back onto their sides. Once, England ended up on his back with both his legs wrapped tightly around America's hips, their legs tangled. They laughed when they found they couldn't disentangle themselves and didn't bother.

The contact of America's cock against his and it felt like his blood was boiling and that he was throbbing. He kissed America again coaxing out and stroking it. Hands grazed their way up and down his thighs, bitten nails sinking into his flesh. It was a feeling he couldn't fight, beneath his skin he was on fire, and it was delightful and familiar, exhilarating and liberating.

England thought to unwrap his arms from around America and removed his hands from where they clenched at his shoulders, but he hadn't the will to do so. He only dug his fingers further into firm muscle and moved their chest closer together, though there was no room left between them. America, too, continued to stroke and massage and grip his thighs and backside; the combined sensations made his skin tingle. Thrusting and exploring until they were soundly exhausted, soon they rolled back on their sides and came together without the further stimulation of hands, just the friction of their erections moving in coordination, murmuring each other's name.

He liked it that way, despite the warm, wetness that stuck them together and the cramp forming in the arm that lay beneath him. America sensed this and shifted his arm underneath him to take some of the pressure of their combined weight on to himself; England loved him for it. He deepened the kiss, a gesture of slow mutual affection instead of their previous shared frenzy to please and be satisfied.

It was relaxing and they both collapsed in a tangled heap, limp and completely at peace. It was declaration of their love and attachment, words alone could not express, that buzzed and thrummed from their shared movement.

"Mmmm, En'land." He sighed. "Liked that."

"M-meri..." England panted resting his head back against a pillow, his legs still firmly wrapped around America. He gave a breathy chuckle. "Should've pulled those jeans out of the closet sooner."

"Nooo," America whined, head pressed to England's chest, fingers still absently massaging small circles into his thighs and ass.

"Why ever not, git?"

"Dn't want anyone else t'see 'em. To see you like that." He nuzzled England's chest. "Y'r mine."

"Yes, yes. And, you're mine. So, I'll wear them just for you. But, I don't think I'll ever have them on very long."

"Can't let anyone else see 'em on you."

"Okay, okay."

"Love you."

"I love you too, precious."

America yawned and England shifted one of his arms out of their embrace long enough to puck the glasses from his face and rest them on the bedside table, vowing to a good washing when they woke.

The jeans might make it out of the drawer again sometime, but he doubted they would ever be on him for more than a few minutes.

Some of America's enthusiastic groping had resulted in bruising, he was sure, as had his grasp on his shoulders, but England didn't find that he cared.

* * *

Sorry they were so talkative. I didn't mean for half of what occurred in the meeting to happen. At all. I just have something about writing fights during world meetings or something. I don't even know. This is more than twice as long as I had planned, over 5000 words. What can I say? I enjoyed writing it.

Please review. :)


End file.
